


Denial

by Crowly



Category: Original - Fandom
Genre: Angels, Canon Non-Binary Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 14:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14522844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowly/pseuds/Crowly
Summary: Carter gets his ass kicked





	Denial

**Author's Note:**

> lol

Carson’s tongue dripped with honeyed lies and slid into the reluctant ear of an angel tangled in the weeds. Their hands sprawled in the grass, counting the blades and the seconds that would press away with hearing; Mihr wished for silence, pined for it even.

The sun was still torching the skies, flushing out the deep blue and burning it the rust of red. His hands were ushering the words deeper, further, cupped around his mouth and carrying those awful things.

He’s going to hurt you.  
He’s told me.  
He’s going to _hurt_ you.

Beautiful, the supposedly violent angel was beautiful. Peaceful in his own word cornered by the swells of greenery and the prudishness of thorns. Pale hairs peering over the hedges like wisps of webbing spun. His hands would appear, disappear, dripping with the ichor of collected berries.

Mihr’s teeth clasped, their eyes turned thinner than the pupil of a serpent. They shook their head, turned away and denied this with a back pulled taunt as wood. But it festers, these seedlings of threats take root and grow. This one, Carson, nurtures it with retched honesty. The conversation paced in circles, choking, seething promises spat by the mouth tinged crimson by the dew of fruit.

These nip, first like teeth, then drag like claws, because he sees the drip of a red bead on his bottom lip and hears the threats themselves. They are there when the angel defiles Mihr’s name, they’re there when mocks turn into motivation.

It’s distrust that unraveled first.

It has Mihr unconsciously leaning into the tune of confession. It throws a wrench in their denial, turned their grip in the grass white as sleet. They breathe through their nose, quiet but fast. Because wrath is quick to approach, slithering out from under the brush of their restraint and coiling itself tightly around their core. Only, it’s a single sentence that has Mihr climbing to their feet, dirt beneath their nails.

He’ll hurt who you love.

The tinder for fire and all its beautiful vines are sawn apart by the serration of blade. It’s primal what’s lunged out of the brush, teeth first and eyes second. It could’ve been a beast, but what arrived on the other side was as lithe and as fine as the deer resting its head inside the hands painted wet.

It was in a tangle of limbs that the gentle creature tore off, flowers spilling from the crown of its head. It fled from the tender care of the boy on the ground, surrounded in a garden of his own making. Bluebells and roses—full and healthy, pink as his cheeks as he scrambled as frantically as the deer had. He puts up his palm, and it’s a weak defense, but it’s pleading.

“Mihr,” but he’s staring at the knife.

Mihr chokes the hilt, but the intention is lackluster because they drop it. Their fingertips tremble, but they make no move.

Frustration gathered with the familiar sting of tears, “why?”

And though they don’t have a knife, their finger points with blame twice as deadly.

“Why?” Mihr asked again, before stepping forward, bramble cracks like bone.

Their lip raveled in a sneer at the fumble they're faced with. They want to shred apart the feeble attempt to quell their sprinting nerves. A step forward is jolting and furious enough to send the other falling three behind.

They speak with a tone as hazardous as broken glass, “don’t lie to me.”

Mihr’s shoulders shuttered. “Why say those things? Those wretched things?”

It’s a hit that sparks an outrage through the forest, flocks split against the sky and it’s against the flutter of ivory wings that the impact rung true. Mihr’s knuckles are dappled with red, as is the corner of Carter’s lips. And it bleeds into the sweetness of smeared fruit.

The knife on the ground was kicked over. It’s such a simple action, but it makes Carter jump. His open, terrified face blotched ruddy and tears staining the folds of his robe dark. Their knuckles of jewels on the clasp of the collar, but nothing glistened brighter than the eyes straining to focus through the blear. He stares, from Mihr to the blade.

“Pick it up,” crisp, final, as Carter had no choice but to stare.

And finally, shake his head.

“I refuse,” he rejects because the idea of violence makes his head throb. They may be in the forest, but surely eyes would see. And if they wouldn’t, he would remember this. They would. This moment had the potential to haunt them.

Then those eyes set on him, and they peel past skin and are digging for the truth. It’s momentary, too fleeting.

“Pick it up,” Mihr says a second time and there’s a fist hammering every syllable. “And spar me.”

Hesitation is met with a kick that swings against ribs, sending the angel to his knees. Wings slender and tall fight to curl as some weak shield against the second hit; Mihr’s knee slamming into his head, knocking the dazed thoughts skyward, towards the blaze of dusk. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, why this being of purity tears into him like he’s the grime beneath sole.

Still, he doesn’t understand. Not even when this angel fists his garments, threatens the seams with how forceful they are. Not when Mihr braces their forehead against his, heating Carter’s cheeks with their breath, heavy and hot. _Furious._

“Watch yourself in my presence.”

Mihr swipes their fingers on their thigh as if touching the other had been enough to sully their hands.

_“Watch that tongue.”_


End file.
